


Ashes

by Zinneth (Zoya_Zalan)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Drama, First Time, M/M, Mystery, Roleplay, Secrets, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 03:08:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8040112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoya_Zalan/pseuds/Zinneth
Summary: Shadows from ages past haunt Erestor.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chaotic_Binky (Glorfindel)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glorfindel/gifts).



> This is my response to the following Sultry in September prompt:
> 
> ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
>  **Rating** up to = R
> 
> **Requested pairing** = Erestor/Lindir
> 
> **Story elements** = I want a spy story, with suspense, duplicity and danger, and also a satisfying ending. Please make Erestor and Lindir tough, somewhat ruthless, and experienced in warfare and spying. AU or canon is fine.
> 
> **Do NOT include** = Fluff; humour, unless integral to the story; crying elves.  
>  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Ignoblebard for riding shotgun with me! Please forgive any mistakes; some of this story did not get sent through the beta washer due to time constraints. I hope you enjoy this, Binky — I wish I would have had another two weeks to work on it. :(

~ * ~ * ~

Imladris burned.

Ithil beheld the horrifying sight from afar, her rays illuminating the elven refuge nearly as brightly as the flames that ravaged buildings and beasts and beings alike. Long lines of elves stretched to the Bruinen, passing bucket after bucket of soothing water throughout the village, but to little avail; the fire raged with an unnatural vengeance, dodging and circumventing in a grim mockery of clever intelligence.

Pandemonium eventually gave way to resignation, to tears and shock. And in the end, once the flames had exhausted their fury and settled into a satisfied smolder, a lone elf still stood in the center of what had once been the main courtyard, fingers clutching a half-filled bucket of water in a death grip. His dark eyes were bloodshot, his face smudged with the remnants of the previous night’s battle, and his jaw was rigidly set in a posture of extreme anger.

He swallowed hard, his spittle carrying the same acrid tang that saturated the surrounding air. It was enough to make his insides churn, but he managed to hold back the bile until his gaze espied the charred corpse of a hound forever caught in frantic repose, paws outstretched, begging for mercy.

The bucket slipped from his fingers as he ran for the nearest stretch of bare earth, where the contents of his empty stomach spilled in gut-wrenching heaves that left him weak and shaky. He spat over and over, trying to rid himself of the filthy aftertaste, but it was everywhere — in his mouth, in his nostrils... on his hands, his face, his hair, his heart...

Death. That was what Imladris had become.

Long fingers curled, clawing into the scorched ground beneath him. He wanted to weep, to mourn for the beauty and life that had been lost, but there were no tears. There was only the same intense hatred he’d borne for Ages, the kind that tainted one’s soul until it shriveled and decayed into nothingness. The little whisper that had haunted him throughout the night’s ordeal suddenly grew louder in his mind, gaining force and amplitude until it could no longer be contained. The words tore from his throat in a hoarse growl, through gritted teeth and determination so fierce it was nearly a palpable cloak that surrounded him.

“ _Never... again..._ ”

~ * ~ * ~


	2. Chapter 2

~ * ~ * ~

When Lindir finally located Lord Elrond, it was quite clear their leader was shaken. Elrond stood alone atop the Spire of Meeting, gazing out over the ruins of the great elven refuge, his expression a study in utter despair. Lindir paused, mid-step, unwilling to disturb such an unguarded moment, but his presence had already been detected. Elrond craned his neck, gesturing for him to approach.

“You have news?” the lord asked.

Lindir took a deep breath before answering. “Aye. The fire appears to have started in the forges... and the kitchens.”

Elrond pinned him with a hard look. “And the stables, I’m told.”

“This was no accident, my lord.”

“Devastation of this magnitude rarely is.”

“Glorfindel has doubled patrols, and everyone is being questioned.” Lindir said. “A group of Rangers saw the blaze when they entered the mouth of the gorge at dawn. They have offered their assistance.”

“Casualties?”

Elrond had undoubtedly heard some of the grim news already. As he had been tasked to collect such information, Lindir was burdened with all of it, unfortunately. His gaze fell to the stone floor of the spire as he spoke. “Three elves were lost — Elwith and Maiveril in the kitchens, and Bélgam in the stables. One of our dwarven guests, Turim Stouthammer, also perished. Seven horses and nearly all the cattle were trapped... various companion animals...” Lindir trailed off, each word etching painful lines in his heart. “Thus far, no one appears to have seen anything amiss. It is as though the flames sprang from nowhere and engulfed the whole of the village at once.”

When Elrond didn’t respond, Lindir glanced back up, only to find the lord peering past him, his expression unreadable. Lindir turned around, following the other’s gaze. Blackened cobblestones lined the ground of the main courtyard beyond, where Imladris’s residents worked to clear debris, some of them barefoot and still dressed in their evening robes. All the abundant vegetation that had graced most of the area, including the exteriors of many dwellings, was gone. The landscape was entirely alien. And yet, that which had drawn the lord’s attention became immediately obvious to Lindir for all its singular irregularity.

He watched, riveted, as Lord Erestor descended the stairs of the Homely House, his gait brisk and full of purpose. Imladris’s esteemed lore master and Chief Advisor was not one to trifle with under any circumstances. His gaze alone could wither the heartiest of souls, and the damage wrought with his sharpened tongue was legendary. So, to see the counsellor dressed not in the usual flowing robes befitting his station, but rather in a form-fitting span of studded leather, with his dark hair tightly pulled into warrior’s plaits and the deadly twin blades of his forefathers sheathed in the dual scabbard strapped to his back, was an imposing sight indeed — imposing enough that the elves in the courtyard gave him a wide berth, quickly clearing his path.

Lindir looked back at Elrond, whose expression remained unchanged. The lord’s keen gaze still followed Erestor’s every move. “Go with him,” Elrond finally murmured. “Do not let his wrath consume him.”

“You wish us to join the patrols, then?”

A mirthless smile tugged at the lord’s lips. “I highly doubt that is his destination.”

“My lord, do you deem it wise for us to leave at this crucial time? There is a perpetrator at large, and Imladris...”

“Imladris will rise again with the help of her children,” Elrond assured, determination shining through the sadness in his eyes. “As to the perpetrator,” he continued, “the counsellor’s instincts are as well honed as those of a scent hound. I am quite inclined to trust his judgment in this.”

“Then I shall follow his footsteps and watch his back,” Lindir declared.

Elrond placed a hand upon his shoulder and squeezed. “Tread carefully... in all things.”

Nodding, Lindir bowed respectfully before descending the stone steps and following Erestor’s retreating form. It wasn’t difficult to discern the counsellor’s destination; he carried a full set of saddle packs over one shoulder. By the time Lindir caught up with him, Erestor had already wrested a set of tack from a confused stable hand and was quickly saddling one of the surviving horses.

“Lord Erestor,” he called.

Within seconds, Lindir was pinned by the counsellor’s venomous glare. He’d seen Erestor express many different levels of anger over the centuries: annoyance, indignation — even outright hostility. But this? This was very different. Unmitigated rage burned in the counsellor’s dark eyes, as bright and terrifying as the fire that had razed their beloved home.

Slightly unnerved, Lindir slowed to a stop. “Lord Elrond has bid me to accompany you,” he continued.

“I do not need accompaniment,” the counsellor stressed, his tone low, dangerous.

Lindir chuckled despite the tension hanging between them. “Of course you don’t, which is why my harp will remain here. But another warrior at your side would surely be an advantage?”

“You?”

“Yes, me.”

Erestor looked as though he wanted to strangle something. Visibly clenching his jaw, the counsellor turned back to his horse and finished tacking up, his edgy movements clearly displaying his displeasure. Lindir watched, hesitant to interrupt the other again, but when Erestor made to mount his steed, he could no longer hold back.

“Erest—”

“Very well!” Erestor snapped. “Meet me at the foot of the High Pass, and be hasty. I shan’t wait overlong.”

Lindir’s brow furrowed. “Wherever are we going?”

The counsellor glowered at him. “Into a pit of vipers. Gear-up accordingly.”

With that, Erestor urged his horse in the direction of the main gate, leaving Lindir standing with his arms half-raised in confusion. When the counsellor finally disappeared from view, Lindir snapped out of his stupor, giving orders for another horse to be readied while he went to gather his gear. Erestor on the warpath? A pit of vipers? What did it all mean? The already complicated circumstances suddenly seemed far darker and more impenetrable than before.

~ * ~ * ~

The damp chill of the Misty Mountains only served to darken Erestor’s mood, something Lindir hadn’t thought possible. All attempts at conversation failed miserably. It wasn’t until they stopped for the night, seeking refuge in a small cave that barely accommodated the two of them and their horses, that the counsellor saw fit to acknowledge his presence.

“Erestor?” Lindir ventured. “Must our destination remain such a secret? I do not feel comfortable facing a situation while so ill-informed.”

The counsellor peered into the darkness beyond the mouth of the cave, his expression sullen. After a long silence, he finally spoke. “Mirkwood.”

“Mirkwood?” Now Lindir was even more confused. “Why on Arda are we traveling there when Imladris lies in ruin?”

Erestor’s dark gaze fixed on him. “I left many enemies in my wake when I accepted the position Elrond offered to me centuries ago.”

“How is that relevant?” Lindir asked. He knew Erestor had once lived in Mirkwood, and there were rumors that his departure from the Woodland Realm had not been an amicable one, but the details, if any, remained shrouded in mystery.

Erestor paused before answering. “A fire once raged through the Elven-King’s halls, bearing eerie similarities to the one that leveled Imladris last eve. I do not,” he emphasized thickly, “believe in coincidences.”

The counsellor’s statement sank in slowly, the implications of which left Lindir reeling. “You jest,” he finally murmured. When Erestor made no effort to correct him, he continued, “Are you seriously insinuating that Mirkwood might have had something to do with what’s happened in the Valley?”

“I insinuate nothing. Yet.”

“Three elves died in the blaze. That would be tantamount to kinslaying!”

Erestor’s gaze drifted back to the curtain of darkness outside. “Indeed it would.”

Deeply disturbed, Lindir absently fussed with the strands of his long blond hair while he considered the possibility that Erestor might be correct. Thranduil Oropherion was a proud, arrogant, and stubborn king, and the woodland elves as a whole were a rather suspicious and unfriendly lot, but Lindir simply couldn’t believe they were vengeful to such a degree. No elf yearned to follow in the footsteps of the Sons of Fëanor.

“How many were lost in the Mirkwood fire?” Lindir asked.

“None, fortunately.”

“And you truly believe someone targeted you in particular?”

Erestor glanced back at him. “The fire started in my chambers and swiftly spread to the royal wing, endangering the king and his family.”

Lindir considered that for a moment. “To my knowledge, no one from Mirkwood has passed through Imladris for some time, though for the sake of argument one cannot rule out a conspirator amongst our kin. Should I be watchful of anyone in particular when we arrive?”

Erestor’s lips twisted into a cheerless grin. “There are many who would celebrate my demise, but a few of those stand out by virtue of their station and how deeply they despised my very existence. Legolas Thranduilion is one; Galion, the king’s seneschal, is the other. Neither has ever trusted me, and both had unimpeded access to the king’s ear during my tenure as one of his advisors.”

“And what of the king himself?”

The fierce glint in Erestor’s eyes softened somewhat, as did his expression. “Thranduil had no reason to doubt my integrity. Had he believed otherwise, he could have banished me from his realm with but a few simple words.”

“Is that not what happened?”

Erestor slowly shook his head. “When the tension rose to unbearable levels, I left of my own accord.”

Their discussion trailed off into an awkward silence. What a quandary this whole situation was, one with far too many unanswered questions. Lindir watched as Erestor retreated to his bedroll a short time later. The counsellor had always been a bit of an enigma to those in Imladris. He was an excellent negotiator and a very loyal member of Lord Elrond’s cabinet, but his dour personality left much to be desired. Erestor kept to himself, and most of the village was quite content with that.

Lindir took a deep draught from his waterskin before moving to the mouth of the cave. He settled himself on a small rocky outcrop, his keen gaze scanning the surrounding area. All was quiet, and he sincerely hoped it would stay that way.

~ * ~ * ~

They broke camp at dawn and slowly made their way through the thick shroud of fog that covered the mountains. The stillness was unnerving, keeping both elves on edge. Every sound seemed to be magnified to unnatural levels. Lindir examined what little terrain was visible through the mist, looking for any signs of orcish activity. Under these conditions, it would be all too easy to fall prey to an ambush.

When the path narrowed at its highest point, both elves dismounted and led their horses single-file. Navigation was treacherous; one wrong step and they would plunge off the side into the rocky crevasse below. This slowed their progress considerably, but it couldn’t be helped.

It wasn’t until Anor reached his zenith that the fog began to dissipate, revealing the Misty Mountains in all their rugged glory. A cold breeze swept the last of the vapor away as they finished their descent to the grasslands below, where Erestor set a punishing pace all the way to the mighty River Anduin.

By the time they reached the western outskirts of Mirkwood two days later, long shadows stretched across the land. It was still light enough to continue travelling, but Erestor slid off his steed, informing him that they should not venture farther until a new day had dawned. Lindir stared into the ominous expanse of ancient trees before them. He had never been to Mirkwood, but the tales of its dangers were well known. The lands of Imladris were tamed, peaceful. Those of Rhovanion radiated a keen sense of wild desolation and unpredictability that left a knot of anxiety in Lindir’s stomach.

As night fell, his disquietude only deepened. Erestor had withdrawn completely into his thoughts, leaving a heavy silence hanging over the campsite. Lindir ate his trail rations slowly, for lack of anything better to do. When the last morsel of food had been consumed, he headed for his bedroll, leaving the first watch in Erestor’s hands, as they had agreed upon earlier.

Sleep proved to be very elusive, however. Lindir spent a great deal of time studying Erestor’s profile, trying in vain to understand how this had all come to be. These destructive fires represented the kind of indirect aggression that quite simply was not typical of elvish behavior. Elves fought with swords and words, in the open for all to see. They did not sneak around in the dead of night, starting fires while giving no consideration to what kind of collateral damage their actions might cause. The very thought of such an act was repugnant.

But would it be equally as repugnant to the woodland elves?

To that, Lindir had no definitive answer. As he had met only a handful of them under very different circumstances, any further speculation was pointless. They would reach the Elven-King’s realm soon enough and, with any luck, find the answers they were looking for. Stifling a yawn, Lindir rolled over and slipped into a fitful reverie.

~ * ~ * ~

“Do not stray from this path,” Erestor warned as he led them into the dimly lit wood.

The Old Forest Road was barely discernible from the rest of the thick vegetation, suggesting that it was not frequently traveled. Lindir could certainly understand why. This woodland had a sinister, sickly feel to it. There was no birdsong, no small animals scurrying about in the underbrush. It was deathly quiet, and the dank odor of rotting flora was overwhelming. Even their horses seemed ill at ease, flinching at the slightest of sounds.

Lindir had heard stories of the singular darkness quietly spreading through what was once Greenwood the Great. Those stories paled in comparison to the gloomy reality that surrounded them, however. This forest was ill. Elves shared such a special bond with nature that it was difficult for him to imagine an elven community residing here at all.

The majority of the day passed without incident, though they both remained alert and on edge. The thought of spending the night in this dismal place did not sit well with Lindir. The intense feeling of being watched — stalked, even — was ever-present, despite seeing no evidence of wildlife or other nefarious creatures.

As dusk approached, they came upon the largest web Lindir had ever seen. It was stretched across the entire path, though parts of it had been torn or slashed. Still, it was enough to unsettle him to an alarming degree.

“Erest—”

Erestor held up his hand, gesturing for silence.

The sound of a small twig snapping somewhere off to their left caused both of them to dismount quickly and draw their weapons. A split second later, they found themselves surrounded by a large contingent of elves, all of whom seemed quite willing to let loose the sharp arrows they had pointing directly at their heads. One of those elves — a tall blond fellow — stepped closer towards Erestor, his expression fierce.

“You are not welcome here, _gwarth_ ,” the blond spat.

Erestor relaxed his stance and slowly sheathed his weapons. “I am here at the behest of Lord Elrond. I bear several important missives for your king.”

The blond did not back down; he kept his own arrow aimed right between the counsellor’s eyes. “You may give them to me, and I will deliver them to the king.”

“And how will your king react when he discovers you not only turned away a diplomatic party from Imladris, but also held them at arrow-point?” Lindir chimed in, feeling rather off-put by such a disrespectful welcome.

“You are dressed for warfare, not diplomacy.”

Erestor took a step towards the blond, completely unfazed by the weapon trained on him. “I would not set foot in your wretched forest without being properly armed, _hîr nín Legolas_.”

So this was Thranduil’s son. Lindir scrutinized the blond, trying to reconcile the affable, generous prince of repute with the rude and very dangerous elf that stood before them. The discrepancy spoke volumes as to the depth of Legolas’s mistrust of Erestor.

“We are eager for rest and sustenance,” the counsellor continued. “And I am quite certain your king will receive us, if you please.”

Legolas clenched his jaw at that, and for a few tense moments, Lindir feared the prince might actually shoot Erestor. The two of them remained locked in a rather intense stare-down until Legolas finally lowered his weapon and signaled for the rest of his party to do the same.

“You will follow me,” the prince ordered curtly before turning and heading away from the path.

The underbrush was thick enough that Erestor and Lindir chose to lead their horses on foot instead of riding. Most of the Mirkwood wardens had disappeared from sight, but Lindir knew better than to believe they were no longer present. They were being watched very carefully, and probably would be for the duration of their stay.

Night had fallen by the time they reached the Elven-King’s halls. Lindir was entirely unprepared for the primitive beauty of the Woodland elves’ refuge. The cavern complex was enormous, carefully tamed tree roots twining around elegant elvish architecture. It had a wild feel to it, not unlike the forest in which it was nestled. They were guided through archways and across a vast network of bridges towards the heart of Thranduil’s domain. And throughout their trek, elves stopped to stare at them, some looking quite surprised while others wore masks of barely contained resentment.

Erestor was definitely not welcome here, and neither was Lindir by virtue of association.

At last, they climbed a grand staircase that led to the reception area just beneath the king’s throne. Thranduil Oropherion sat amid an intricate patchwork of ancient branches that had been bent and twisted to their master’s will. His legs were casually crossed, hands resting gently atop the throne’s arms, but his rigid posture and purposely neutral expression gave away his displeasure.

Thranduil’s gaze was fixed upon Erestor, and for the longest time, all he did was stare. Just as the silence started to become awkward, the king stood and descended to their level, taking each step with deliberate restraint. Thranduil radiated a sense of control that was very much different than that of Imladris’s lord. Where Elrond used courtesy and wisdom to forge bonds, Thranduil appeared to use intimidation. And it was working rather well...

Both Erestor and Lindir bowed respectfully as Thranduil came to a stop before them. Another long silence ensued while the king continued to gaze at Erestor. “I did not expect to see you... ever again,” he finally said.

“Forgive the unannounced tarriance, my lord. This is Lindir of Imladris,” Erestor gestured towards him. “We bring word from Lord Elrond.”

Thranduil turned his attention to Lindir, who found himself snared by the Elven-King’s cool gaze. The weight of those icy blues was extraordinary, and left Lindir feeling as though his very soul had been laid bare. It was all he could do not to fidget.

“And how does the Valley fare these days?” Thranduil asked him.

Something about the Elven-King’s nonchalant tone made the hair on Lindir’s neck stand on end. It was almost as though... 

A moment later, Lindir clenched his jaw. Even as the revelation sank in, he could hardly believe it. Thranduil knew — he knew what had happened and why they were there. Lindir swallowed the stinging retort that lay at the tip of his tongue and settled for returning Thranduil’s continued scrutiny with a menacing look of his own.

“All in Imladris is well,” Erestor answered for him, the lie effortlessly slipping past his lips. “I have important missives from Lord Elro—”

“In good time,” Thranduil interrupted, dismissing Erestor’s explanation with an impatient wave of his hand. “Galion!”

The king’s seneschal appeared from behind them, a tall, dark-haired elf that made no effort at all to disguise his dismay. Galion tossed the two of them a scathing look before addressing the king. “Yes, my lord?”

“Escort our... _guests_... to their chambers.”

Without missing a beat, Erestor told them, “A single suite will suffice, thank you.”

Suddenly, all eyes were trained on Lindir, who schooled his expression despite his own surprise. After a moment’s consideration, he realized Erestor’s plan was strategic. If indeed the woodland elves were responsible for the destruction in Imladris, he and Erestor should not be separated. That knowledge did little to appease Lindir’s uncertainty, though. He felt the weight of the others’ gazes, heavy with speculation and distaste, and was quite content to let them judge as they will. It was just another layer of antipathy added to the already abundant supply of Mirkwood congeniality.

A sneer spread across Galion’s face. “Follow me.”

Reluctantly, they trailed after the king’s seneschal, who led them further into the grotto. The complexity of this refuge stunned Lindir. He was grateful Erestor was familiar with these halls. Should the need arise to leave quickly, Lindir would be at a great disadvantage on his own.

Galion led them to a modest set of rooms before rudely excusing himself. The suite was sparsely furnished — definitely not on par with what visiting dignitaries would be offered in Imladris. Then again, they were only _personae non gratae_ here in the Woodland Realm.

Lindir dumped his haversack beside the large bed. He glanced at Erestor, prepared to voice his concerns regarding Thranduil, but the counsellor gestured for silence with his hand. Brow furrowed, Lindir cocked his head in question, but Erestor turned away from him, carefully sliding out of his armor. Lindir followed suit, draping his own heavy leather over the back of the divan.

Dressed only in a light tunic and hosen, Lindir sat on the bed and began pulling his boots off. He’d barely finished the task before Erestor closed the distance between them and slowly pushed him backwards until he was lying flat on the coverlet. Lindir’s eyes widened, his lips already parted to ask what in all of Arda his companion was doing, when Erestor crawled atop him and captured his lips in what was arguably the sweetest, most passionate kiss he had ever experienced.

Stunned beyond all measure, Lindir could only surrender as his companion thoroughly plundered his lips. He never would have believed Erestor was capable of such affection if he hadn’t experienced it first-hand. It was shocking to say the least... and breathtaking. Lindir’s hands wandered up the planes of Erestor’s bare back, kneading and teasing of their own accord. What a revelation this was!

By the time Erestor withdrew, Lindir was absolutely captivated... and thoroughly aroused. The counsellor continued to nuzzle him, his lips paving a trail of gentle kisses all the way to his ear, where he finally whispered, “This room has eyes and ears.”

Their show was nothing more than a pretense — something Lindir should have guessed from the start. Instead, he found himself oddly disappointed. Erestor’s amorous side was more than a little enchanting. He found himself wondering how many people had been fortunate enough to enjoy the counsellor’s touch.

A smile found its way to Lindir’s face when Erestor pulled back to look at him. Having unspoken permission to continue the ruse, Lindir carded his fingers through his companion’s dark hair. It was as soft and silky as it looked. Erestor closed his eyes and leaned into the caress, which only served to kindle Lindir’s growing excitement.

In a single fluid move, Lindir reversed their positions, pinning the counsellor beneath him. Erestor arched his back, stretching seductively. Sweet Elbereth, where had this beguiling creature been hiding all these centuries? All of Imladris would have wooed him relentlessly had they known what lay just underneath his taciturn exterior.

Lindir leaned down until their faces were obscured by the curtain of his golden hair. “Thranduil knows,” he whispered against Erestor’s lips.

“Yes.”

They kissed again, and Lindir found himself carried away by the intensity of it all. Tongues battled for dominance, barely allowing the few stolen nips their teeth managed to sneak in. Hands feverishly explored uncharted territory, uncovering all sorts of hidden pleasures. Lindir had never given of himself so readily before. He was shocked at how easy it was to let go, to bask in their mounting passion. Erestor seemed so willing, so eager... so aroused. It was electrifying.

When Erestor tugged at his hosen, Lindir shifted onto his side. Moments later, a warm mouth engulfed his length, leaving absolutely no room for coherent thought. Erestor played his body like a highly skilled minstrel, coaxing countless crescendos with both lips and fingers. Lindir hungrily matched Erestor’s enthusiasm. Their duet continued long into the night, until at last they lay panting in each other’s arms, tired but thoroughly sated.

~ * ~ * ~

Lindir awoke the next morning to find himself alone. He blinked, slightly confused. He’d been quite certain that Erestor meant for them to remain together for safety’s sake.

A wry grin touched his lips when he took in the tangled condition of the bed sheets. Last evening had been incredible. He would never again look upon Erestor as such a dour, anti-social individual. The counsellor hid a wellspring of passion beneath his usual mask of indifference. Like it or not, Erestor had loosed the proverbial cat from its sack. There was no turning back. Still smiling, he retired to the bathing chamber for his morning ablution.

Lindir cursed his lack of foresight in not packing a set of robes. Erestor’s ‘viper pit’ comment had left him believing they would be wielding swords on this mission, not diplomatic titles. He donned the nicest tunic he had, matching it with a set of dark hosen — and a few carefully concealed daggers, of course.

As soon as he stepped out of their chambers, Lindir saw Galion disappearing around a corner further down the passageway. Had Thranduil’s seneschal been spying on him? Erestor had been wise to suggest they proceed cautiously under the guise of lovers. This whole situation made his gut churn. Wanting to know whether Galion knew anything of Imladris’s plight, Lindir decided to follow him.

He shadowed Galion for the better part of a candle mark, discreetly observing his interactions with others and trying to make some sense of the confusing array of corridors. Not having gleaned anything useful during that time, Lindir was about ready to break off his pursuit when Galion simply... disappeared.

Lindir rounded the same corner Galion had moments before, but it was an empty dead end. Slowing his pace, he examined the walls for any sign of a hidden passage, but found none. Yet another mystery added to the mix...

“Are you lost, Lindir of Imladris?”

Startled, Lindir spun around. Legolas stood a few paces behind him, hands casually clasped behind his back. His expression was entirely devoid of emotion, but the look in his bright eyes carried a serious threat.

“Apparently I am. Would you be so kind as to point me towards your feasting hall?”

Legolas didn’t move a muscle. He just stared until the silence stretched to uncomfortable levels. Lindir was about to excuse himself when Legolas finally spoke.

“Are you a willing cohort or has he blackmailed you into this?”

Lindir blinked in surprise. “Cohort?”

“Erestor,” Legolas spat impatiently, the first touch of annoyance wrinkling his brow. “Is he paying you to do his dirty deeds?”

“What is this you speak of?” Lindir was genuinely confused.

“Let me guess...” Legolas said, his lips twisting into a feral grin. “There was a fire.”

Lindir’s heart nearly stopped. His voice cracked when he asked, “What do you know of any fire?”

Legolas took a step closer, the intensity of his gaze deepening. “You should ask your dear friend about Doriath — about the fire that razed the great library there. Ask him about Ost-in-Edhil in Eregion, as well. Ask him about the fire that tore through these halls centuries ago,” he gestured towards the walls surrounding them, “and then ask him about the fire I suspect has raged through your precious Imladris. Lord Erestor is the only common denominator; wherever he settles himself, disaster is sure to follow.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” Lindir said, pushing past the prince. He needn’t listen to such a vicious attack on Erestor’s character.

“Mind my words, Lindir. They may save your life,” Legolas called after him.

Lindir was fuming as he retreated down the endless passageways. The Mirkwood elves had devised an elaborate scheme of some kind, a web of lies with which they hoped to ensnare Lindir and pit him against one of his kin. As hard as it was to swallow, Erestor was right to suspect them. Lindir would have never believed it possible until now.

With his attention focused elsewhere, Lindir quickly lost his way. All the passages looked alike. Stopping at the junction of another corridor, he looked around, trying to guess which way would take him back to their chambers. Trail rations would assuage his hunger just as well as a trip to the feasting hall, and it would afford him the chance to think about this new development in private.

He politely asked the first elf he passed for directions, and discovered he’d been on the correct path after all. A few minutes later, he started to round the last corner...

...and stopped dead in his tracks.

Their chamber door was open. Erestor leaned casually against the frame, gazing up at the Elven-King who was standing far closer than Lindir believed was appropriate given the circumstances.

“It has happened?” he heard Thranduil murmur.

Erestor inhaled deeply. “We have much to discuss.”

“Much to discuss?” The words slid past Lindir’s lips before he could quash them.

Both elves turned to look at him. He had obviously caught them unawares. Despite his disrespectful interruption, Lindir couldn’t help but step forward, eyeing _both_ of them suspiciously. How was it that the two of them seemed so friendly all of the sudden?

“I would speak with you, Lindir,” Erestor said, gesturing for him to enter their chambers.

Lindir pinned the Elven-King with a harsh glare. “And would you speak with me as well, Your Highness?”

The look Thranduil tossed at him could have withered the whole of the Woodland Realm. Tearing his gaze away, the king addressed Erestor. “We shall revisit this later. I have dwarves to contend with at present.”

Erestor nodded. “Of course, my lord.”

Lindir watched until Thranduil’s form disappeared from sight before turning his attention back to Erestor. Could Legolas have been right after all? “I know not whether you are friend or foe,” was all he could manage to say.

“Things are not as they seem.”

“Then please enlighten me, Counsellor, for I grow weary of all the half-truths strewn about.”

He could tell by the look in Erestor’s eyes that he’d provoked his ire. Still, the counsellor remained calm. “Many centuries ago, a fire—”

“—spread through these halls,” Lindir finished for him. “Yes, that part you’ve already explained. What you neglected to mention is that some in Mirkwood believed you were responsible!”

“I was _not_ responsible,” Erestor insisted firmly.

“Just as you were not responsible for what happened in Doriath and Eregion?”

The counsellor’s hands curled into fists. “Where did you hear that?”

“Does it matter?”

“The fires were not started by my hand,” Erestor growled.

“How is it that they mysteriously followed you across Middle-earth?”

Erestor advanced on him, his expression dark. “I do not know! A total of thirteen elves lost their lives in those fires. By some maniacal twist of fate, their blood rests on my hands! Not a day goes by that I do not beg their forgiveness. Not a day goes by that I do not ask to Eru to have mercy on me and end this nightmare!”

“Where were you when your chambers here were engulfed in flames?” Lindir demanded.

“I was with Thranduil! The _entire_ night!”

The admission left a stunned silence in its wake. Erestor’s whole body shook with emotion, his dark eyes filled with a curious mixture of anger and desperation. He and Thranduil had been lovers. Why had Lindir not suspected that? And if Legolas and Galion had known and disapproved, would one of them have been driven to such extremes in the name of retribution?

Any further thoughts fled Lindir’s mind when the first hint of smoke invaded his senses. Erestor spun around in that same moment, searching for the source of the smell. “No...”

The two of them broke into a run, crossing several passageways in a matter of moments. Their noses led them straight to the main cavern. The scene, when they finally arrived, was one of utter chaos. Countless elves were trying to subdue the last of the flames. Buckets of water were being passed from person to person while some used wet blankets to beat back the fire.

In the midst of it all, Legolas dragged the limp body of a dwarf towards them. Lindir immediately recognized the dwarf as one who had sought respite in Imladris. Legolas’s expression was one of barely controlled rage as he dumped his bloodied burden at Erestor’s feet.

“I found him with a tinderbox and an ale mug filled with lamp oil. This,” Legolas gestured towards the dwindling flames, “is his handiwork.”

The dwarf groaned then, slowly opening the eye that hadn’t been thoroughly pummeled by Legolas. On spying Erestor, he immediately spat in his direction.

Lindir grabbed the dwarf and hauled him to his feet. “What is the meaning of such violence and disrespect?”

“I owe you no explanations.”

“Think again,” Lindir snarled, slamming the dwarf against the nearest wall. His fist connected moments later, leaving a trail of blood flowing down the other’s scruffy beard.

Erestor invaded the dwarf’s personal space, looming over him. “Why?” he demanded. “What have I done to warrant such callous attacks upon my people?”

“Dwarves never forgive, and they never forget.”

“Speak plainly!”

The dwarf spat again, his bloody spittle landing in tiny globs all over Erestor’s tunic. “My ancestors hail from Nogrod. Many were felled by your very hand.”

“The Sack of Doriath?” Erestor asked incredulously. That had happened Ages ago!

“Wherever you went, we found a way to follow.”

Leaning down, Erestor grinned ruthlessly at him. “You will follow no longer, for I shall hunt down every last drop of your bloodline until there are none left to find.” With that, the counsellor plunged a hidden knife deep into sturdy flesh, twisting and tearing while the last ragged breaths escaped the dwarf’s throat.

Lindir felt numb. Such needless death and destruction, all for a family’s personal vendetta?

“I owe you many apologies, Erestor,” Legolas offered. “I truly believed you were the culprit.”

Erestor glanced across the cavern. Fortunately, the fire there had been safely extinguished. “Resentment is far too suffocating a burden to bear,” he said. “You are forgiven.”

Legolas quirked a brow. “There _was_ a fire in Imladris, yes?”

“Indeed,” Lindir chimed in. “She lies in ruin as we speak.”

“Mirkwood stands ready to assist. All you need do is ask.”

The smile that graced Erestor’s face was quite astonishing, both for its rarity and its authenticity. Lindir decided he quite enjoyed seeing counsellor’s face so radiant. Repeat performances were definitely in order.

****

~ * ~ finis ~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations**  
>  Ithil = the moon  
> Anor = the sun  
> gwarth = betrayer  
> Hîr nín Legolas = my lord, Legolas  
> personae non gratae = unwelcome persons  
> Arda = the world


End file.
